


something brave from your mouth

by la_victorienne



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-06
Updated: 2010-11-06
Packaged: 2018-10-15 10:43:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10554992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_victorienne/pseuds/la_victorienne
Summary: In which Arthur asks three questions, Eames makes any number of undignified noises, and everybody lovesthisKate Beaton shirt.





	

"May I join you?"

Eames looks up from his newspaper sharply, taking in the clean lines and tasteful colors of the Arthur-shaped person in front of him. He blinks, twice, and creases the paper wrongly before managing a hopefully nonchalant "by all means." Arthur sits, with the hint of a smile, and Eames crosses his legs at the knee.

"It's a lovely little spot," Arthur says.

"Mm," Eames agrees, brow furrowed. "I like their toast," he volunteers, because it's never too late to say something inane. "It's crisp."

Arthur arches a brow; Eames feels wildly out of his depth. "Is it?" Arthur purrs, and good God, why did he have to come now, when Eames is least prepared? "I should have some, then."

"Have mine," Eames babbles, pushing the plate and toast rack across the café table. "Good to see you're in London, Arthur, we must catch up later, ta." He picks up his smudged and folded Guardian and is on the next tube home.

It's only when he's unlocking his flat door that he realizes what Arthur is even doing in the city.

"Bugger," he says to no-one, and turns on the telly to a rerun of QI.

 

 

 

"May I come in?"

This time, Arthur's on his doorstep. Eames can't stop looking at his chin, at the single spot on Arthur's jaw he missed shaving. It's a comfort, in a way, to see that Arthur has imperfections. Mostly, though, it makes him a little nervous.

"I, er, of course, come in, Arthur. I have a beer in the fridge?"

"I'd love one. Is that Sherlock Holmes, on your shirt?"

Eames looks down at himself. "I suppose it is, yes. It…was a gift. From my sister." He tries not to think about how easy it is to lie. Better than admitting to ordering it the minute he saw it online, with express delivery. He hasn't even washed it yet.

"It suits you. Better than your orange paisley monstrosity."

Eames would like to banter back. He would, really. But the thing about Arthur being here is that it's not part of the play, not part of the script Eames is used to. They're not friends, not really; Arthur doesn't see the Eames of leisure or the Eames of improvisation, only the Eames of the job, the Eames of performance, the Eames of pretend. There are rules, at the workplace, in the dreamscape. Expectations. Without limits Eames is floundering, grasping at straws, coming up empty handed. "Er," he says, and disappears to fetch the beer.

Arthur follows him, of course. Arthur with the desire to know, the need to understand. Arthur the information gatherer. Arthur, the bloody gorgeous. Arthur the bloody nuisance. "Are you all right, Eames?"

"What? Yes, I'm fine. How are you, what are you doing here, do you have another job set up already, how is Cobb?" Typical, that. Can't ever ask a single question. Always all or nothing. Eames wants, a little, to die. Might be less humiliating than this, than Arthur finding out he can't be on all the time.

Arthur has his brow furrowed, as if working he questions out from each other. "Cobb is fine, I don't have another job, haven't you realized what I'm doing here already?"

He's standing very close, now. The necks of the beer bottles are sweating in Eames' palms. Better them than me, he thinks, eyes settling again on the stubbled patch of Arthur's skin. "Arthur, I don't," he starts, but Arthur is crowding him against the counter and pressing his mouth to Eames,' and Eames has to grip the bottles a little tighter to make sure he doesn't drop them because holy _shit_ he is not prepared for this.

He makes an undignified sort of yelping sound into Arthur's mouth. Arthur pulls away.

"Really, Eames, it can't come as all that much of a surprise. You've been flirting with me for years, you should be pleased it's finally paid off." He presses forward for another kiss, and Eames opens up underneath it, letting theoretical knowledge take over and keeping a firm grip on the bottles in his hands. "That's better," Arthur murmurs. Eames' knees actually buckle. Arthur catches him before he hits the floor.

Which, in retrospect, is fortuitous, because Eames is fairly certain he's lost the ability to speak.

"Murphle," he says.

"What the fuck," Arthur replies.

Eames makes a break for the bathroom, overcome with vertigo.

When he emerges, Arthur is gone.

"Double bugger," he says to no-one, and turns on the telly to a rerun of Doctor Who.

 

 

 

"May I court you?"

Eames sticks his head out the window, one shutter banging against the brick. "Arthur?" Even to himself, he sounds twelve years old.

"Yes, Eames. It's me. May I court you?"

Eames sticks his head further out to see Arthur waving a bouquet of daisies. "Am I dreaming?" He sticks his hand in his pocket. "Wait. I'm not. Shit. Arthur, I don't—I don't know—I'm not very good at this, and—"

"I know," Arthur interrupts. Eames makes a sound remarkably like a "bwuh?" and Arthur shrugs. "I get it, Eames. You're good at the stuff with rules. So let's make some." Another undignified sound emerges from Eames' mouth; he shuts his jaw with a snap. Arthur smiles. Eames thinks of sharks. "I won't bite," Arthur wheedles. "Not without permission."

"Did you just wheedle?" Eames asks, and that's not what he meant to say but Arthur's eyes are crinkling anyway, and Eames feels himself grinning in response.

"I might've," Arthur admits. "Gonna let me in, Eames?"

It's a cue. Cues Eames understands, cues Eames can handle, cues are the holy writ of his trade. Everything in his body relaxes, every anxiety ebbs. "Please, Arthur. Come in."

Eames puts the daisies in water and Arthur turns the telly to a rerun of Sherlock.


End file.
